


Ace of Cups

by Sonne Sextet (KittyHamilton)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Drinking, First Time Blow Jobs, Fortune Telling, Gay Bar, M/M, Masturbation, Panic Attacks, Romance, Surfing, Tarot, Vacation, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26310229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyHamilton/pseuds/Sonne%20Sextet
Summary: Suffering from musician's block and a fear that his best years are behind him, Richard jumps at the chance to replace Olli as Paul's companion on their annual windsurfing trip in Cape Town. But you can't outrun your feelings, and new ones might be blossoming for his fellow guitarist...
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Comments: 24
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

Richard noticed it as he reached to spread a handful of shaving cream along his jawline. He leaned forward until the counter pressed into his stomach, swiping his forearm across the fogged mirror. In the reflection was a man in his fifties, flushed pink from the shower. His frowning eyebrows needed shaping. Standing out next the dark stubble, pointing up from the left side of his chin, was white hair.

He prodded it, tugging the skin with his fingernail, hoping it was the glare of reflected light. White it remained.

A liberal coating of shaving cream and a close shave later, and it was gone. Like the silvery roots that appeared between applications of black hair dye, no one would know of its existence but him. It wasn’t a surprise. A loosening of skin here, a wrinkle there. The layer fat over the muscle that was harder to shed every year. Just another sign of time’s inevitable march forward.

Richard had no right to complain. Family, fortune, freedom, friends, fame, fucking: he had the fs in abundance. But he used to be handsome, too.

A bit late to be having a midlife crisis. He snagged the towel, and began drying from his chest to legs, then back up to his hair. It was due for a cut.

Appearance didn’t matter, in the end. What mattered was his art. As long as he created, he earned the right to his existence. With the recording of the final song on Rammstein’s new album finished, that leaves plenty of time to stretch his unburdened creative instincts. 

* * *

Richard looked out over the Berlin skyline and took another puff from his cigarette. The pink light of the sunset stained the clouds and outlined the edges of darkened buildings. Beyond the tobacco, he smelled the pork satay’s peanut sauce from the grill, chlorine from the roof pool. The cheerful voices of friends and family echoed around him and Schneider.

“Hours of work, and it’s all fucking shit. Normally it starts to come together at some point, you know? But the song got worse and worse the longer I worked on it.” Richard gestured with his cigarette. Smoke swirled in the cool evening air. “And before I was trying to find that inspiration, a song that spoke to me, and none did. So if I can’t follow the inspiration and I can’t brute force it through hard work, what’s wrong?”  
Schneider shrugged, sipped his rum and coke. The new mustache, combined with the glasses made him look older, in a fatherly sort of way. “Inspiration comes and goes. You should know that by now.”

Richard opened his mouth, preparing to vent his frustrations until Schneider truly appreciated his predicament, but shut it again. He had monopolized enough of Schneider’s time with his complaints. Schneider was doing wonderfully these days, with his beautiful wife and perfectly flat stomach. He deserved to enjoy the party. And Schneider wasn’t exactly wrong, either.

Till and his new lady friend splashed around like rowdy kids. Tills rose up from the water underneath her, holding her thighs over his shoulders, as she squealed and flailed for balance.

Richard should have been happier, which makes him unhappy, which makes him feel even worse. He knew enough about himself to realize that his tolerance for socializing has faded early, and he needed to put himself down for a rest like a fractious child.

He excused himself, and Schneider gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

Cabinets hung open, as if the room had been struck by a tiny tornado. Maybe that was accurate; Richard closed the door behind him with a thunk, and Paul rose from behind the island. 

“Hey,” Richard said.

“Mphm,” Paul replied, mouth flexing around the bread and salami he’s stuffed it with. He pointed at the coffee maker, then at Richard, then back to the coffee maker, puppy eyes so wide and sad they’d melt the heart of anyone who hadn’t known him for an hour.

“I’m coming.” Richard closed the cabinets as he made his way to the one above the coffee maker. “You could have just asked.”

Paul pointed to his stuffed mouth, shrugged.

Richard stretched up onto his toes, pushed aside the containers of cocoa and protein powder from the top shelf, and pulled the container of coffee beans out.

Paul shot him a baleful look.  Richard smiled back. “I’ll put it lower next time.”

“Mrmphhmph.”

“Fuck you too.”

Paul was incredibly touchy and specific about his coffee preferences, and it had taken Richard years to make coffee that even came close to his exacting standards. Richard ground the beans just so, added just the right amount of water to the coffee maker, and flitted across the kitchen gathering mugs, sugar, cream, and measuring spoons.

As Paul measured out his sugar, Richard glanced at his finger. No wedding band. No more tan line, either. As if it was never there.

It had been six months since the divorce. Richard had no idea why it happened. Paul didn’t spill his emotions easily, and always kept the most private parts of his relationship between himself and his partner. But even Richard could tell Paul had been devastated. 

Richard had tried to be there for him, as best he could, and Paul had been eager for the company of his friends. It had been worst the first two months after. His his humor darkened and as his teasing comments at his friend’s expense turned cruel. Paul’s smile alternated between mocking and resigned, if it didn’t disappear entirely. Richard hadn’t held it against him. None of Rammstein did, though they did make sure he knew when lines had been crossed.

Now, as Paul leaned back against the island, mug in his hand and salami finally swallowed, he looked...pretty good. Under the black t-shirt, Richard could tell he’d exchanged excess fat he’d gained for muscle. His skin was tanned from the outdoors. Most important, Paul’s eyes were gentle, his mouth curved in a relaxed, thoughtful smile. 

They sipped they coffee in companionable silence.

“What were those pork kebab things?” Paul said. “They were good.”

“Pork satay. I’ll e-mail you the recipe, though I improvised a bit.”

“Hmm.” Sighing, Paul tilted his head back. “Olli’s betrayed me.”

Richard drank his coffee (black) and listened. It was time to pay his dues by listening to someone else’s woes.

Paul groaned, “Wisdom teeth removal. At the last minute. We had just managed to sneak in our Cape Town windsurfing trip at the end of the season, and now, of all times, his teeth decide to start sprouting from his jaw and pushing the others out or whatever. Bawww.” He gestured widely with his free arm, as if throwing something away. Maybe his windsurfing vacation dreams. 

“You really can’t reschedule?” Richard asked.

“No. I mean, we’re going to have to start worrying about marketing and the cover, not to mention the live show and music videos. It was supposed to fit perfectly into our post-recording mini-vacation break. And now—poof. Up in smoke.”

“You could go alone?”

Paul slumped forward like a deflated balloon. “It’s not the same.”

He was playing it up, but the disappointment was real. It had to be a kick in the teeth, after the year he’d had so far, to miss out. Cape Town was so beautiful, with people as warm as the weather. A perfect place to get away from everything. 

“I’ll go with you.”

Paul blinked. Richard blushed. Close friends or not, it was still rude to invite yourself on someone’s vacation. Well, Paul might do it, but Richard tried to hold himself to a higher standard.

“It was just an idea,” Richard added. “I’m no windsurfer. Or the best vacation partner.” After years of travel, Richard had become more and more satisfied curling up in the safe and lonely privacy of home, with less energy to go on adventures. Paul and Olli were well adapted to spending endless hours in one another’s company, even if that was just walking around, finding fun in the most unlikely of places. Richard was best in small doses, and took small doses best. 

And as a workaholic perfectionist, he knew the pain of being weighed down by a straggler that didn’t take what you were doing seriously.

“No, no.” Paul held up a hand, looking at the ceiling as his mind worked. “Let’s do it! If you get sick of the beach, you do your own thing while I’m windsurfing. Get some peace and quiet. Work on Emigrate stuff.” He straightened like a dying plant given water. Just like that, he’s alive again, vigorously planning the trip. His eyes twinkled. “Cook me dinner.”

Richard’s lips twitched. “No promises.”

“What? I come back home from a hard day of windsurfing, and you won’t even cook me dinner? You won’t bag a husband with that attitude.”

Richard poured the last dregs of his coffee in the sink. “Sorry, I only date tall men.”

“Cruel, Richard. That's cruel.”

Yes, this was exactly what they both needed. Time away from everything. No expectations or stress. Just peace, pleasure, and ocean waves.

* * *

Richard wondered how much of their lives has been spent going through metal detectors or waiting at baggage pick-up. Much more bearable with a friend. Thank God for business class. It was an hour and a half long flight for a brief layover in Frankfurt, followed by over ten hours flying south to South Africa. They spent the time chatting, discussing Rammstein, or music, or in mutual silence. 

Besides for a brief moment where they feared the loss of Paul’s luggage, it was uneventful. It was night when the taxi dropped them off at the rental. Richard took the world’s shortest shower, and collapsed into bed.

Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Richard clomped downstairs. He was met with one of the most beautiful views he’d ever seen.

The living room wall was one huge glass window, looking out into the ocean. In his tired haze the night before, he hadn’t appreciated just how close it was. Mindlessly, Richard plopped onto a couch to watch and listen. Waves roar over rocks, leaving seaweed in their wake. To the south was flat-topped Table Mountain, tinged with blue as it faded into horizon.

“Isn’t it great?” Paul dropped a paper bag into Richard's lap, warm and heavy with the promise of breakfast. He was offensively chipper, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and his sunglasses pushed up onto his head. “Olli and I rent this place every year. Lagoon Beach is practically a meter away. Don’t smoke in here though, ja?”

He handed him coffee and Richard drank it gratefully. He would wake up slowly for the next hour or two. Normally Richard exercised in his gym to get the blood pumping, but travelling didn’t always make physical activity easy.

Paul didn’t have that problem. He listed off tasks on his fingers. “I got our rental car. We still need to go rent our boards. Get some groceries, so you can cook for me like a good housewife. You need a new wetsuit, right? We can see how we feel after. I like to take a day to settle in. Oh, and I should probably call George.”

Richard’s morning-brain was still convinced he only wanted to curl up under warm covers, so he didn’t bother offering an opinion on his plans for the day. “George?”

“Ah, did I forget to mention him? He’s a photographer friend I met online. We planned to meet up. You’ll like him.”

“I look forward to it,” Richard said, and swallowed down more coffee. Maybe Paul will be around even less than he expected.

As an annual resident, Paul knew the area, and pointed out his favorite restaurants and stores, telling anecdotes from his adventures with Olli. A vacation meant restaurants and delivery, but they bought some essentials anyway, like coffee and alcohol. Paul badgered Richard into getting ingredients for bread.

“George has never had German bread,” Paul explained. “He needs to.”

“And I have to make it? I’m a cook, not a baker.”

“I’ll help. Besides, then we’ll eat the rest.”

Richard couldn't argue with that.

Wandering ended up being their preferred way to spend the day. They went to a flea market, drove around the brightly colored houses of Bo-Kaap, poked around stores they have no intention of buying from. When he tried on the wetsuit, Richard even managed to limit his brooding over his waistline to less than a minute.

“Wow,” Paul said, stepping in front of a shop window. Richard peered in. Inside was a geode the size of his head, central to a display of candles, shiny rocks, and a miniature Buddha. The sign above, with a dreamcatcher hanging underneath, said,  _ The Energy Well: Ancient Answers to a Modern World. _

“Think they have leeches?” Paul pushed the door, setting off a cavalcade of chimes.

Richard was struck by a gust of cool, perfumed air. The store was cozy and cluttered. Every wall was covered in trinkets. A middle aged woman, braids sparkling with beads, looked up from stocking a shelf of candles to wave as they entered. The teen at the counter went on examining her nails.

Paul, who had stopped by a bookshelf, removed a palm sized volume and held it aloft. It had a cartoon of a woman meditated on the cover. “‘ _Bringing out your Inner Goddess_ ’. Sounds up your alley.” Richard flipped him off, and Paul laughed.

Richard did believe in the supernatural. Destiny, reincarnation, astrology, karma, spirits. The world couldn’t be governed by random change, and even if it was, thinking that way had never helped. 

But even he was skeptical of rocks that attract health, wealth, or romance. He walked past a display of boxes of crystals marked with handwritten signs. Rose quartz for love, carnelian for creativity. Maybe one for inspiration wouldn’t be so bad…

Decks of tarot cards were placed in a low box on the counter. Richard had assumed there was one sort of tarot, but apparently there were many different kinds. The boxes were tiny pieces of art, some fantastical and detailed, others mysterious and stylized.

He push aside an Art Nouveau styled deck, and spotted a red box. He dug it out, ran his hands over it. The paper has a rougher texture, and the picture-a robed old man holding a lantern-was black, but rough around the edges, as if it had been made from some old printing press. The lantern was highlighted in shining silver foil.

“Do you read tarot?” It was the older woman (still younger than him), now behind the counter. The teen was staring into space, or maybe the astral placen.

“Just browsing” said Richard, setting it back down. “The art on some of these looks incredible.”

“They come with a reference manual inside that tells you what the cards mean. I do readings too, by the way,” she said, nodding at the wall behind her.

It took him a moment to find the right sign among all the astrological charts. Three card spread, Celtic Cross…

Why not? Out of all the things he had experienced in life, a tarot reading wasn’t on the list. “Want a tarot reading, Paul? On me.”

“Eh? Sure.” Paul gave Richard a look, eyebrows raised high in exaggerated wonderment as he set down an incense burner.

* * *

“I’m Lesedi, by the way.” She beckoned them into a back room that doubled as storage. Shelves full of cardboard boxes covered the back wall, and a cheap folding table sat in the center. Lesedi unfolded a chair leaning on the wall so they could both sit across from her. 

Lesedi pulled out a box of cards and shuffled. “Do you have something in mind?”

“Never had a tarot reading before,” Paul said. “Richard’s the expert.”

Richard shoved Paul’s shoulder, and Paul mimed being pushed from the chair. “Do we need to ask a question?”

“No. Sometimes it’s easier for the Universe to send you a message when you’re not talking over it.” Lesedi set the deck down. “For open-ended readings like this, I do a three card spread or a Celtic cross.”

“What’s the difference?” Paul asked.

“Well, there are lots of complexities to each. But basically, a three card spread involves three cards, and a Celtic cross has ten cards. The cross gives the most information, but requires a more experienced tarot reader.”

“Three is good,” said Paul.

“Would you like to go first?” Lesedi glanced between them.

Richard gestured for Paul to go ahead, and Paul leaned forward, elbows on the table, to get a closer look at the deck.

She pushes it toward him. “Now, cut the deck with your left hand and place it on top.”

His brow furrowed, as if tasked with some great puzzle, and he cut the deck with a flourish, taking off the first quarter. 

Lesedi combined the deck again, and laid down three cards in a row. “These represent your past, present, and future.”

The art on the cards looked old. The sort of thing Medieval minstrels and abbots would hunch over in some dimly lit tavern. People falling from a shattered tower, a heart impaled on three swords. A man meditated under a tree, accompanied by some strange spirit. 

She tapped her purple painted nail on the first card. “The Tower. This is a card of great upheavals. Big, traumatic changes that are necessary to move further through the karmic cycle. Has anything like that happened to you?

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to know?” Paul, cocked his head to the side.

“I’m not psychic. A reading requires cooperation between both querant and reader.”

Paul scratches his bearded chin. “Things have been good.”

Richard’s lips parted, but he was silent.

“No deaths in the family, or accidents? A big life change could apply. A child moving away, retiring from a career-”   


“I can’t think of anything.”   


“The death of a pet, divorce?”

Paul’s smile turned fixed, and his scratching finger stilled. Richard stretched his arm out to rest a hand on his leg.

Lesedi seemed to realize she wasn’t going to get anything else out of Paul, and moved on to the next card. You didn’t need to be a mystic sage to guess the symbolism of a stabbed, upside down heart in the rain.

“This is the Three of Swords, reversed. It is a card of emotional pain. Grief, sadness, heartbreak, and heartache.”

Richard’s own heart felt colder in his chest. He watched Paul out of the corner of his eye. He’d known Paul was suffering. He’d tried to help. Had it been enough? Was he even able to help?

Lesedi didn’t ask for Paul’s opinion this time, apparently sensing him closing off. Paul’s smile had turned a bit sardonic. 

“But it’s reversed. There are many ways to interpret a reversed card. Sometimes it means a blocked energy, or an opposite meaning. Perhaps its influence is on the wane. The wound The Tower inflicted is healing?”

“I need a cigarette,” Paul said, giving Richard’s hand a touch before rising from the chair. “I’ll meet you outside, ja?”

Richard dug out his pack and lighter to hand them over. Paul winked, as if they were in on some private joke.

Fuck. Should he follow him? Or give him space?

When the door swung shut behind him, Richard said, “Sorry. I don’t think he expected something that heavy. Paul doesn’t believe in this stuff.” 

“I understand.” As Lesedi nodded, her brains swung out, clacking beads together. “I get plenty of non-believers coming in just to make fun. I’m sorry your friend is going through some things…”

“But he’s feeling better?” At least, that’s what the Three of Swords indicated. Richard looked down at the final card. A man sat under a tree, with three cups before him, his arms and legs crossed. A hand, extending from a cloud, offered a fourth. 

She frowns, reaching over to sweep up the cards into her deck. “Ah, well…”

“It’s not bad, is it?”

“Sorry, I prefer not to talk about someone’s reading without their permission.” She continued shuffling, hesitating a little. “But I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s bad. Reading is an art, not a science. The future is never set in stone, either.”

Richard didn’t know how the energies of the universe moved or what they said, but he did feel they might be at work here. Paul’s reading might have been a coincidence, but maybe not.

“Could I have a ten card reading?”

“The Celtic cross? What do you want to focus on?”

Richard bit his lip. “I’m not sure…” How does he deal with getting old? Why did he struggle to create? How could he help Paul? “A general reading, that can tell me where I should be going. What to focus on. That’s possible?”

“Of course. Cut the deck.”

He took about a third off the top of the deck, and she laid out the cards.

This was a more elaborate spread. It started with two cards, one crossed over the other. Then, going clockwise around the cross, she placed four cards on either side, top and bottom. To the right of the cross, Lesedi started a column, moving bottom to top, to the right of the cross.

Symbols and figures he couldn’t comprehend in positions he didn’t understand the significance of. Starting from the cross’s center, Lesedi explained.

It started with the World, reversed. Richard’s present situation, a representation of his lack of fulfillment. Then there was the Six of Swords, a card about moving on. That had to be this impromptu vacation. The Moon was his past, a card of anxiety and illusion. Pretty fucking accurate.

“The Magician reversed is in the recent past,” Lesedi pointed out the upside down card with a man holding a wand. “The Magician is the card of personal power and creation.”

“I’m a musician,” Richard explained. “And I’ve been having a shit time writing lately. Is that why it’s reversed?”

Lesedi laughed. “You’re good at this. That’s exactly right. So you’re moving on from all this into the future. This is where the reading gets more interesting.”

She pointed to the right card of the cross. On it, a hand emerged from a cloud, floating over a pond full of lily pads. In its palm is a goblet that overflowed with water. “This is the Ace of Cups. It’s a card of emotions and inspiration. As an ace, it signals the start of something new. And up here — ” Lesedi indicated the cross’s top card. A man and woman, toasting their cups under a strange winged lion head. “ — is the Two of Cups. This is a card of love and partnership.

“Now, the Ace of Cups is in the near future position, and the Two of Cups is what crowns you. It’s a possible future. This suggests that there might be a new romance coming your way.”

“Really?” It came out as an overly excited yelp, but Richard was a full believer now. And more eager for a romance than he’d expected of himself.

“It might be some other kind of emotional partnership,” Lesedi said, “But yeah, that’s what I think.”

Richard took a moment to get a hold of himself. “And the rest?”

“This card at the bottom represents you: the Knight of Wands. It means you’re going to approach the situation with passion and determination. Next up is your external influences, and you’ve got a strong member of the Major Arcana. The Sun is a positive card. Warmth, joy, goodness.”

Richard chuckled. “How literal is it? Because Berlin is so cloudy, and I've been dying for some sunlight here.” 

“It might be! But it represents the situation you’re in, and the people surrounding you. The Sun is exactly the card you want to represent your vacation.”

Richard thought of Paul, and his cheeriness despite his pain.

“Next are your hopes and fears, represented by the Wheel of Fortune. This is a card of destiny. All the things you can’t control in life. Maybe you fear that fate will lead you wrong, or hope that it will send something good your way?”

“Both.” But doesn’t everyone?

“Now, here’s your expected outcome.”

Even Richard recognized this card: The Lovers, upside down. And just like that, the hopes he hadn’t realized had been piling up toppled over. “Oh.”

“Don’t panic, don’t panic!” Lesedi said, pushing some dangling braids back over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t bother with tarot readings if the future was immutable. I’m surprised, especially with your Sun and Knight of Wands. But! Remember, you’re crowned by a Two of Cups, another possible outcome.” She waved her hand over the spread like a sorcerer casting a spell. Maybe she was.

“I think this is a blocked energy. Obviously, the Lovers represent relationships and love. But I don’t think its reversal is a  _ failed _ relationship. It’s a block on a potential relationship.”

“Is there a difference?”

“This isn’t like you got the Tower, where you need to figure out how to avoid an upcoming catastrophe the card represents. The potential for a successful relationship is there. You just have to — ” she spun the card “ — turn it around.”

Turn it around. As if anything was that easy. “How?”

“Knowing that it’s a possibility is sometimes enough,” Lesedi said, “You can watch for signs of trouble and avoid pitfalls. It could lie in your past. Don’t let the influence of the Moon hold back the Sun. Maybe the answer isn’t in this tarot spread at all. By the time this new romance shows up, a new set of cards could be on the table.”

Richard’s mind raced. He was almost about to insist on another reading when he remembered Paul waiting outside, brooding over his own past and present.

He stood, and so did she. Richard offered his hand and she shook it with a whisper of a grip.

“I’d actually call this a good reading.” Lesedi walked him back out to the register. Richard gave her his debit card.

You know the reason most people don’t get the outcome they want?” She swiped the card, handed it back. “They don’t push hard enough.”

* * *

Paul was tossing his cigarette in a trashcan, a brown paper bag dangling from his fingers. “Learn anything exciting about your future?”

“It was really interesting, actually!” Richard paused. “Are you okay?”

Paul sighed and rolled his eyes, as if the question was absurd. “I’m fine. Take this.”

“What do you want me to cook now?”

He looked inside the bag. There, alongside the receipt, was the red and black tarot.

“Paul!”

“Paul’s grin was one of complete satisfaction. “I saw you pining over it. It’s your favorite colors.”

A tangle of emotions boiled up in Richard’s chest. He didn’t know what words to pick.

So, he wrapped his arms around Paul’s shoulders, pulled him close and squeezed. For good measure, he planted a kiss on his forehead.

“Oh you.” Paul’s voice was muffled, and his tone suggested Richard was the most absurd thing on the planet. 

Still, he hugged back.


	2. Chapter 2

Wind gusted from the Atlantic, spraying sand and stealing heat from Richard’s exposed skin. The water would be colder. While Paul fussed with his board, Richard had laid out their towels.

Paul sat on the ground, foot pressed against the bottom of the mast as he pulled the ropes. It hadn’t been an easy process. The rolled plastic had fluttered wildly in the breeze, and Paul had grumbled curses as he forced it into a taut, unwieldy sail. 

Richard spread a smear of sunscreen along his temple. “Sure you don’t need help?”

Paul tugged back hard in a burst of effort. “In a minute.” He tied the ropes off and stood, shaking the sand from his hands.

Paul filled out a wetsuit nicely with his lean, athletic figure. He pulled the boom over the sail, the muscles of his arms working, his hands strong and confident. Shame there weren’t any single women watching. He could use a new girlfriend.

Speaking of…

Richard looked out across the beach. A father added another lump to his childrens' sandcastle. A young woman held up her cellphone and posed with her boyfriend. Teen girls edged slowly into the water, cringing from the temperature. 

What did he expect? To catch a glimpse of a woman and just...know? It would be nice, but nothing in life came easy. Even love at first sight. _Especially_ love at first sight.

“So fastidious,” Paul teased as Richard wiped excess sunscreen under his chin.

“Maybe I don’t want your speckles.” Nowadays Richard wore sunscreen daily to preserve his skin, but Paul didn’t need to know. “Hurry up.”

Paul tilted the board on its side. “Hold this in place.”

Richard did. Paul screwed the sail in, looked it all over, and seemed to deem it acceptable. He grabbed a handle on the board and the mast in the other, while Richard tucked his own board under his arm. Paul’s burden looked awkward to carry, but he seemed to know what he was doing as they started toward the water.

“Be careful,” Paul said, adjusting his grip. “The waves are big today.”

“Seriously? I can take care of myself.” 

“You’re out of practice, unless there are waves on your roof.”

“Not _that_ out of practice.” Richard hesitated. “Probably. But I’ll be fine. Besides, I already rented the board.”

Paul grinned. “If your broken body washes up later, I’m saying ‘I told you so’, is all.”

Richard hissed as the end of a wave first rushed over his foot, pulling sand from under his toes as it receded. “And you’ll laugh at all my mistakes.”

“I don’t need to tell you I’ll do that!”

Paul was not the only windsurfer. Their sails crossed over the water like the fins of enormous fish. Suddenly, a figure shot by, sailless and soaring.

“Holy shit.”

“Eh?” Paul looked up from the bundle of seaweed he’d been trying not to step on.

Richard pointed. As he watched, he saw the lines attaching the man to a rectangular, parachute-like kite catching the wind.

“Ugh.” Paul wrinkled his nose, rolled his eyes.

“What?” The water now passed their knees, so Richard released his board to float on the surface.

“Kiteboarding is for little girls and retirees.”

“Harsh!” Richard laughed. “Maybe a little jealous?”

“No! But it’s so much easier than windsurfing.” A wave slapped them in the midsection, and both scrambled to keep their boards near. Paul continued, “You can be making those huge jumps the day you start. People just dive right into this extreme sport, and aren’t careful and have no idea what they’re doing…But people can do whatever they want I guess.”

“How generous of you.”

“Bah.” Paul pulled a lever on his board, and climbed on.

Richard backed off to give him space, watching Paul haul the sail upright without losing balance.

They might have been at the same beach, but this was where they parted. Surfing wasn’t a team sport, and Paul needed space to maneuver. They gave each other a final wave good-bye. Paul adjusted his sail, caught the wind, and sailed off.

Richard pulled himself onto his longboard, resting the length of his body atop it. It wobbled, and he froze, ready for this surf session to begin with toppling into the water. But it steadied. Richard adjusted his positioning, arms dangling, feeling how the board was against his skin, and how it bobbed in the water. 

He looked out at the approaching set of waves, and paddled.

Richard did not catch the first waves. His paddling was too slow to get in position. On the first wave he did catch, his pop up was a fast, flailing mess, and he spilled into the water, getting water up his nose and bonking himself on the head.

As Richard hung on the side of the longboard, sneezing, he got a perfect view of a man with abs so chiseled Richard could see their outline through the wetsuit, surfing along a wave in effortlessly perfect form.

It was almost enough to make Richard want to take his board and go home. But he’d never been a quitter, whether that came to music or cigarettes. And even as he fucked up, he could feel success just out of reach, echoes of muscle memory telling him that if he just tried one more time, shifted his weight just so, he’d nail it.

Richard entered that pleasurable trance of physical activity where there was no thought, only doing. He misjudged waves, but then caught the next one. Wiped out, got back on. Then, there was that thrill he’d almost forgotten. Riding a rushing surge of water, wind on his face, his mind silent as awareness of his body took over.

When the muscles along his sides ached from pulling himself through water, Richard turned back to the shore.

Richard collapsed on his towel with a sigh of exhausted satisfaction. He lit himself a cigarette, chugged down tepid but saltless water, and scanned the horizon for Paul.

He spotted Paul’s sail south from where they started: a transparent center, surrounded by gunmetal grey, with the black veins of an insect wing.

Paul leaned, turned the sail, and altered course, accelerating along a rising wave. He turned up towards the crest and shot into the air. 

Richard gasped. Paul would fall back, tangled with the equipment, smacking against the water’s surface.

Instead, the board, and his legs with it, tilted up and over... _and all the way around_. Paul landed neatly, board under his feet, and slid off in one long motion

Paul could do flips? Richard had had no idea Paul was that skilled. Hell, Richard didn’t know maneuvers like that existed, especially with the added height of an entire sail. 

Paul jumped again, spinning sideways like a top. 

When did Paul get so good? He sometimes uploaded pictures and videos of Olli surfing on their WhatsApp group, but rarely of himself. And nothing like this.

After several minutes, Paul spotted him, and released a hand to wave. Richard waved back, flashed a thumbs up, then mimed wild applause. A distant flash of smile.

Out of nowhere, a man plowed into Paul. He was thrown into the water and the sail knocked down. A wave rose, obscuring the scene. When it receded, the board and sail were on their side. No Paul.

Richard was on his feet. In the water. No conscious choice in it. Paul could mock him after Richard saw him safe.

He passed that kiteboarder clinging to his board, and continued until he reached the toppled sail and board. No Paul.

Richard treaded water, looking left and right. Fuck the ocean. It was like an ever changing landscape, pulling its contents this way and that. Paul could be behind waves, further down the coast, anywhere underneath...

Paul broke the surface several meters away, thrashing and sputtering. “Fucking fuck,” he spat.

Alive and pissed. Just as Richard liked him.

Richard swam over, and grabbed a surprised Paul’s hand, and guided it over his shoulder. Paul relaxed, easing back to float and allowing Richard to pull him along. Eventually, he turned over and began to kick weakly.

Paul let Richard support him to the damp sand of the beach, where he turned and wretched. “Ugh. I swallowed five liters of seawater.”

When they reached their towels, Paul slumped down, and Richard somehow end up with his head resting against his chest.

Paul groaned. “Ouch.”

Richard ran his hand over him, looking for injuries. Not that he could even see them under the wetsuit. Maybe he was just reassuring himself Paul was whole.

“Are you okay?” Richard asked.

“Thanks to you, hero.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, but you make a nice pillow.” Paul’s eyes were closed in relaxation as he tilted his head back against Richard’s chest. “Your heart’s pounding.”

They stayed like that a moment, catching their breath.

“If I open my eyes” Paul said, “am I going to see my kit floating away into the open ocean?”

“Er…” Whoops. Getting Paul to his board, in retrospect, might have been the better option.

An obnoxious American voice broke the peace. “Watch where you’re going! Why didn’t you get out of the way?” The kiteboarder was a white haired and red from sunburn or anger. He stomped over, kicking sand with each step, mustache twitching.

Richard stood, snarling, and stepped forward. The kiteboarder stepped back. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he roared, “You went right into him!”

Once he started, he couldn’t stop, and Richard descended into a full blown, furious rant, touching on safety, irresponsibility, rudeness, drowning facts, filing a lawsuit, ands threat to tear up the kite and use it for toilet paper, 

The man stammered, eyes wide, face somehow changing to an deeper crimson. When he realized Richard would not allow him to get a word in, he turned and left, muttering under his breath. 

Paul chuckled, and the surge of anger Richard was riding faded.

“What a piece of shit,” Richard said. “Are you sure you’re okay, Paul?”

“Yeah. Gonna leave a mark though.” Paul rapped his fingers along his right side. “Big, bruised marks.” He pulled himself into a sitting position with a wince. “Would you look at that.”

It was the six-pack surfer. He’d unzipped the wetsuit to the waist, revealing a perfect, even tan. Maybe ‘eight-pack surfer’ was more accurate. He was dragging Paul’s surfboard behind him, sail and all. 

“This yours, little dude?” The accent was so stereotypical, Richard would have thought it was fake if the expression on the chiseled surfer’s face hadn’t been so earnest.

“It is. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Paul made grabbing gestures at his board. “Richard, kiss him for me.”

Richard didn’t. But the eight-pack surfer still sat cross-legged in the sand nearby, talking surfing with Paul while Richard enjoyed a well-deserved cigarette.

\---

Paul waited until lunch to tell Richard he’d invited George over for dinner at 8:00, and that he’d promised Richard’s famous duck would be served. Richard threatened to drag him out to sea to drown properly.

The first problem was their sourdough starter, which needed more than the twenty-four hours they’d given it to finish doing whatever sourdough starters do before you can use them. Second was the limited time they had to both bake bread and roast a duck. Once the decision was made to risk it, they poured over the bread recipe like they were prepping for brain surgery. By the time they were finished, Paul’s laptop had ten tabs open on YouTube videos demonstrating how to knead dough, showing how long bread needs to rise, and explaining how long starter needs to start.

Pulling out those two loaves, and sharing a warm chunk together, was like witnessing the birth of their children. The loaves were a bit flat, and a little lumpy, but they’d made those them with their own hands. Richard and Paul shared a flour-covered embrace, and Paul sent a picture to the Rammstein WhatsApp.

The duck was a tight squeeze, but less daunting. Growing up in DDR meant having a do-it-yourself attitude, and that included cooking your own food (baking aside). While Richard had professional experience, Paul still made a great kitchen assistant, chopping even chunks of onion on the plastic cutting board while Richard sliced carrots on the wooden one. When Richard ran out of tasks to give him, Paul hung over his shoulder, questioning every decision until Richard banished him into the living room.

“Duck’s in the oven,” Richard said, tossing away the oven mitts. 

Paul, reclining on the couch with his laptop and munching a crispbread, gave him the thumbs-up.

“You’ll spoil your appetite.”

“Impossible,” he garbled out from behind half-chewed bread. Paul did seem to have a separate stomach specializing in crispbread storage.

Richard leaned across the back of the couch. “How do you know this George anyway?”

Pauls eyes sparkled. “Want to know a secret? You should be honored. Only my...family knows about it, so far.” The pause suggested his ex was among that group. “Promise not to tell?

Paul loved little secrets, things he could reveal at just the right time to shock someone. He enjoyed revealing them so much he couldn’t keep them long.

“Cross my heart.” 

He pointed toward his laptop. Richard circled the couch to sit by his feet and take it.

It was a social media account. Instagram, Richard supposed, from the address. There were rows upon rows of photographs. Landscapes, buildings, objects in black and white or color. The more he looked, the more he recognized locations. Most were from Berlin. Richard clicked one of an empty Prenzlauer Berg playground. 

266 Likes  
Paul.Pictures  
Playing with my new Canon TS-E 90mm f/2.8 lens.

“You really took these?”

“Don’t sound so shocked!”

Paul had snapped in plenty of candids with Richard in them, and Paul wasn’t shy about sharing his favorite shots. But seeing all those photos together made the quality and scale obvious in a way it hadn’t been before.

Paul stretched out, arms above his head and legs pushing against Richard. “I wanted to get feedback on my work without the Rammstein baggage. See if I can make a small name for myself. There I’m photographer Paul, not Rammstein’s guitarist Paul.”

Richard looked again. No self-portraits, family, or bandmates. When people did appear in the photographs at all, they were either in anonymous crowds or were many degrees of separation from Rammstein and their work.

“Wait, this means George doesn’t know you’re a famous guitarist in a famous band?”

“Nope,” Paul said cheerfully. “But he suggested meeting while I’m here, so why not?”

There was brilliant simplicity to it. While being in Rammstein wasn’t the same as being a proper celebrity, their fans were dedicated, and would be all over this account if they knew. Not knowing who you were talking to was one of the scariest aspects of the internet, but Paul had turned it to his advantage. “So I shouldn’t mention Rammstein to George?”

“Hmm.” Paul took his laptop back and shut it with a click. “Just don’t mention the name of the band unless he asks directly. I mean, he probably hasn’t heard of us, but still.”

Richard poked him in the thigh. “Only if you set the table.”

Paul’s face twisted into a grimace of agony. He clutched his side. “Oh, Richard, I can’t. I’m so sore. Must...rest...pain...too much...”

Paul complied after Richard confiscated his package of crispbread. The urgency to get setup, however, was unnecessary. George was late. 

International travel taught them punctuality was not a universal value, so Richard tried not to take it hard, intermittently heating and stirring the duck gravy. They were in the midst of an intense negotiation over whether Paul would be allowed to eat one more crispbread when the doorbell rang.

George was in his late twenties or early thirties. His stubble was almost a beard, and his light brown hair was pulled into a bun at the back of his head. With the loose scarf and blazer over a t-shirt, he had the air of a youngish art professor.

“George! Nice to meet you.” Paul extended his hand.

It took a moment for George to take it as he swept his gaze over Paul, Richard, and the beach house. Finally, he nodded and took Paul’s hand. “You’re older than I expected,” George said.

“Ahh. Well, you’re younger than I thought. This is my friend Richard.”

George’s handshake was firm, almost uncomfortable, and he stared at Richard’s painted nails like they were cultures of bacteria that weren’t growing as expected. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being older,” he continued. “I mean, you can’t expand your skills past a certain point, but there’s nothing wrong with being an amateur photographer.”

Richard looked at Paul over George’s shoulder. Paul’s mouth hung open.

How did you react to a first impression this bad? Richard would throw out a defense of Paul in other circumstances, but this was Paul’s supposed friend. Richard plastered on a tight, toothless smile. He was shit at faking emotions, but George didn’t seem to pick up on it.

“Well...It’s nice to meet you,” Richard said, ushering him toward the kitchen, “Paul told me you had helped him with his photography.”

“I consider it important to pass on my knowledge.” George sat at the head of the table. “It’s really the least I can do.”

Paul goggled at George like he’d never seen him before in his life. And Richard supposed he hadn’t.

Richard busied himself removing the duck from the oven and plating food, waspish comebacks piling up behind his teeth.

If only George had his restraint.

“Uh, so you make your living as a photographer?” Paul said, taking a seat carefully, as if George was a high-strung pitbull.

George shook his head, and looked at Paul with a wise, weary expression, like an elder gazing upon an innocent child. “Commerce and art are incompatible concepts. I make art, not products to be consumed by the masses.”

He launched into a monologue on this point, not even pausing for breath when Richard served him.

“Cindy Sherman said my work with models was revolutionary,” George drawled, “And of course, I have great respect for her work. Even if she’s a bit cliché.”

“Richard, get me drunk please,” Paul said in German, a desperate sort of smile pinned on his face as he raised his wine glass. Richard filled it to the brim with Pinot Noir, then settled across from him to fill his own. Maybe he should get something stronger.

Paul gulped down a mouthful. “Are you familiar with the work of Armin Meiwes.”

“Of course,” George said, without skipping a beat. “A little pedestrian. I told him so at one of his shows. I think he’s improving, though.”

Richard inhaled a shred of duck skin, and spent a minute choking into a napkin. By time he recovered, Paul was refilling his glass, eyes shining with tears of repressed laughter.

And thus proceeded once of the most bizarre dinners Richard had ever had, with stupid, arrogant George oblivious to the fact that he was the evening's entertainment. Paul and Richard alternated in baiting him. Richard didn’t know enough about photography to truly appreciate some of the conversation, but could guess from Paul’s reactions that what was coming out of George’s mouth was absurd. Richard mostly invented supposedly famous photographers, all of whom George knew and had strong opinions about. When Richard asked for George’s thoughts about the new German-based movement of abstract industrial photography, known as the Rammstein style, Paul had to hide in the bathroom while George pontificated on its revolutionary brilliance.

“Must have had too much to drink,” Richard explained as echoes of muffled laughter escaped down the hall.”

“Drinking is unnecessary for having a good time,” George said solemnly. “It’s poison, you know.”

Richard offered him a wobbly, one-sided toast.

When Paul returned, George was bragging about how many galleries and art contests he’d entered or won. Apparently it was most of them.

“The Gallery Deep Eye is having a juried exhibition. The theme is Cape Town itself. I considered not entering,” George said, “because it isn’t really right for someone of my skill level to take away a place from an upcoming photographer. But I think it’s important that the average person has a chance to see my work. The world is starved for true art.”

Richard made vague noises of acknowledgement, which was all George needed to continue explaining his brilliance.

“Oh really?” Paul said between giggles. He was resting his elbows on the table to prop his head up in his hands. “Me too.”

George stilled, the hand holding frozen bread several centimeters from his mouth. “As an amateur, you really shouldn’t be wasting the time of the juries. Especially when there are people who are serious about it. Will you even be in Cape Town for the show?”

Paul threw out his arms, tipping back in his chair. “You never know until you try! Maybe I’ll even see you in the opening! How much of an honor would it be, to share an exhibition with you?”

George fidgeted in his chair. He bit off a piece of the German bread, chewed, and set it back down. “Something’s wrong with your bread.”

When George left, Paul and Richard fell into drunken hysterics.

“Oh my God, Paul. How did you find this guy?” Richard howled.

“I _swear_ , I swear he didn’t come off like this online.” Paul was literally on the floor, clutching his stomach. “‘Abstract industrial Rammstein photography movement’. Fuck, we need to stop talking about this. My bruises hurt. I’m going to throw up your duck.”

“Don’t fucking dare.”

They lay there for a while, trying to calm themselves, in the afterglow of hilarity. Still on his back, Paul pulled out his phone.

Richard mustered the strength to stand. “Whatcha doing?”

“Checking out that contest. He wasn’t lying about its existence, at least.”

“Are you really entering?”

“The only requirement is that the photographs need to have been taken in Cape Town. I’ve never entered something like this before. Could be fun. You can model for me.”

“What, like George’s models?” During one horrifying interlude, George had whipped out his phone to show off off ‘art portraits’ of scantily dressed women on the beach. “We’d have to find a bikini that fits me.”

“Did those women even know he was taking pictures? I could ambush you in the shower.” Paul’s wicked smile melted into something more thoughtful.

“Don’t even think about it.” 

“Just thinking some shots in the rain would actually be pretty…” Paul waved his hand around. “...good? I’m too drunk for ideas.”

Richard poked him with his foot.

“Ow. Richard, that’s mean. I’ve been seriously injured.”

“You’ll be even more seriously injured if you don’t help clean up.”

He pouted, but let Richard pull him to his feet. They worked in silence, until Richard reached the plate with George’s bread. It had only its single bite mark. 

Richard looked at Paul. Paul looked at Richard. 

They dissolved into laughter.

\---

The next morning, Richard surfed for an hour as his morning workout, leaving Paul to windsurf alone. He was on an entirely different continent, warmed by the sun’s revitalizing rays, with the taste of sea salt on his tongue. Time to make music.

Richard set up in the living room, overlooking the beach. He started by listening to works in progress, unfinished melodies and riffs. Nothing cried for attention. The bits felt like themselves alone, without paths to a complete idea.

Fine. This vacation was about finding a new space, anyway. Richard could start with a silent, blank page. No expectations.

He pondered, pulling up the unwritten rhythms floating in the back of his mind. Digging deep, searching for the wellspring of inspiration that would flow forth into a river.

It didn't come.

He recorded an idea. Listened. Hated it. Reworked it and rerecord. Hated it. Made more coffee. Smoked a cigarette on the porch, and listened to what he had. Dumped it all. 

Again and again and again.

Was something wrong with him?

It had been bad before, but had it ever been this bad? Sure, he’d just finished up an Emigrate record, and was in the tail end of finishing a Rammstein one, but normally he was always getting ideas. Enough ideas to annoy his colleagues.

Might have been age. Those deep waters drying up after all those years. It happened to everyone, eventually.

Richard’s hands tensed on the strings. It’s not like he had that many good years left in him. If he wanted to make his mark, create something timeless and perfect, time was running out.

Shakily, Richard set down his guitar, and headed back in to refill his coffee mug. He’d need to brew another pot. He took a deep breath, then a deep sip.

He could still function within Rammstein, where their collective creativity bounced off one another's like pool balls. But Rammstein wasn’t something he had complete control over. Not even in the musical sense. Till had been reluctant to work on this album at first, happy to express himself with Lindemann. He’d agreed that time, but that was no guarantee of next time. It was a miracle they had stuck together so long, without a single member walking away. And speaking of old age, that would put a sharp, inevitable end to them. Cancer, probably.

Hell, even a random accident. If yesterday’s crash had ended differently... A line wrapped around a neck, a fatal blow to the spine. Richard treading water, searching for Paul while his lungs filled somewhere under the surface.

Breathing. He couldn’t breathe...

His mug slipped from shaking fingers and crashed to the floor. The room dipped and rolled like a boat’s deck, and he leaned against the counter, straining for breath.

A panic attack. He’d stressed himself into a panic attack. For fuck’s sake. 

He forced himself to turn, take one step at a time toward the stairs. One unsteady foot on the first step. Then another. His hands tingled with numbness as he pressed them against the bannister.

Richard was in a beach house, on vacation, making music, and his body was reacting like he was moments from death.

Finally, finally he opened the door to his room and fell onto the bed, curling into the duvet, more for the comfort than warmth.

Years without a panic attack down the drain.

No. No thinking. Only breathing. He took another deep, tremulous breath. Exhaled slowly.

“Fuck. Are you okay?”

Of course the cherry on top of this nightmare sundae was Paul witnessing his humiliation. Paul stood in his doorway, still dripping in his wetsuit, eyes wide. He was at Richard’s bedside in a second, hand on his forehead. “Jesus, you’re ice. Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Richard shook his head. Paul frowned and gnawed at his lower lip, unconvinced. 

Richard forced out, through chattering teeth, “Panic attack.”

“A panic attack?” 

“I’ll be fine…”  
  
Paul hovered, shifting from foot to foot. “Do you need anything? What helps?”

“Just leave me alone, okay?” Richard buried his face in the pillow. After a moment, her heard Paul’s retreating steps.

In less than five minutes, Paul returned dressed in shorts, a packet of crispbread in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He placed his delivery on the nightstand, then walked over to the other side of the bed.

“Move over.” Paul gave Richard a gentle shove on the ass, and slid under the duvet.

“Paul?”

“I thought you might like some company.” Hae ran a hand along Richard’s shaking shoulders, letting his bare arm rest against his back.

Richard rode out his panic attacks in private, when he could. It was embarrassing, losing control of his emotions and body. Even with someone sympathetic, Richard didn’t want to look weak, or see the worry in their eyes. None of the other Rammstein members had witnessed one. If given the choice, Richard would have wished Paul would never know he’d had one today.

But Paul was here, and Richard was so, so stupidly grateful. He wrapped his arms around Paul’s shoulders, pulling himself half-atop him. 

“Oof! Easy, big guy.” Paul let Richard tuck his head underneath his chin, and reached up to stroke his hair.

Paul was warm, his shape familiar in Richard’s arms. It was one he’d hugged and leaned against, slept by and wrestled with. Paul hasn’t showered, and smelled of sunscreen and the sea. 

A weight atop Richard fell away.

“Should I talk,” Paul murmured, “or be quiet?”

“Talk, maybe.”

“Hmmm. Okay,” Paul shifted underneath him. Richard might have been squishing him, but Paul had to deal with it. Richard wasn’t letting go. “For the contest, I’ve been thinking…”

Lenses, camera models, composition… Richard let the jargon wash over him, enjoying the rhythmic, Berlin tones of Paul’s voice. Paul’s chest rose and fell beneath him, and Richard tried to match his own breaths to it.

\---

When Richard jerked awake, Paul was fully dressed and sitting on top of the duvet next to him, browsing the internet on his laptop.

“Feeling better, sleepy head?”

Richard uncurled himself, and took a sip from the glass of water. Words of embarrassed explanation stuck in his throat.

“I was going to order take-out. Want to watch a movie?” Paul tilted his head to indicate the wide screen TV mounted on the opposite wall. 

Richard relaxed. That was Paul. He could make things so easy, sometimes.

They sat close together on the bed, eating chicken vindaloo and naan atop baking sheets used as makeshift trays. Paul hooked his laptop to the TV so they could watch Netflix from his account. He picked some movie called ‘Birdbox’ which was absolutely asinine, but they had fun mocking the acting and premise.

Belatedly, Richard realized Paul might have suggested this to cheer him up. But friends took care of each other, right? Richard just had to pay him back. 

Paul shoveled a chunk of potato into his mouth. It slipped at the last second, smearing sauce above his chin. He swiped the sauce off with his finger, put it in his mouth, and licked.

Somehow, Richard _felt_ it. Those little wrinkles around Paul’s eyes, the hair of his beard, the wetness of his lips: it was as if they were under his palms. Besides the strong scented vindaloo, there was coffee, vanilla, and that distinct human element Richard recognized as Paul himself. The skin of Richard’s forearm, pressed against Paul’s own, felt every hair and stretch of flesh with the force of an earthquake. 

Richard gasped. Heat flashed across his body, and his cock rose.

Immediately he shifted, pulling the duvet into his lap. What. The. Fuck. It could be adrenaline, leftover from the panic attack. But the anxiety didn’t mount. His breathing was a little deeper and heavier, but steady.

He knew what this fucking feeling was. _Fucking_ was right. 

The bolt of lust lulled to a low burn beneath his skin. Richard was intensely aware of Paul’s presence beside him. The way his t-shirt had ridden up to reveal a hint of stomach. The tattoo on his neck. What it might feel like, if Richard moved a little closer.

Whether from Richard’s quietness, or some subtle signal of discomfort he was giving off, Paul seemed to sense he needed his space. “Let’s call it a night,” Paul said. “If you’re in need of emergency cuddling, my door is always open.”

\---

Richard took his second shower of the day, half to clear the remains of cold sweat from the panic attack, half to clear his mind. Or put off the inevitable. Because once he laid back in bed, there was nothing to do but think about what had just happened.

He brushed his teeth one final time. Then he returned, damp and naked, to the bed, and his fears.

Richard had wanted Paul. It could have been fucked up emotions after the panic attack, mixing with desperate gratefulness for Paul’s kindness. Richard had spent over fifty years not wanting to fuck men. He’d spent years dealing with Paul, in close quarters. Surely he would know if he was gay for Paul by now.

But Richard knew people who had come out after years and years...

No. It was nothing. A random biological reaction. It would never come up again, and some day Richard would tell Paul about it, and they’d both laugh about how he thought he was gay for a few hours.

But his gut kept twisting.

_Ace of Cups…_

In another year, on another day, Richard would have assumed the vindaloo was disagreeing with him. But tonight, it felt like intuition.

Sometimes, the only way forward was through. And the last thing Richard needed was some new anxiety hanging over his head.

He closed his eyes. Shuffled to the side, as if Paul was still on the other side of the bed. As Richard stroked his hand slowly downward, he cobbled together an image. Paul, naked but for a chain necklace, stretched out, flaccid cock resting along his thigh. 

No need for much imagination. Richard had seen him naked, and half naked today. Muscled, but not thick, and freckled. Large hands. The relaxed, cocky smile he had when he was pleased with himself.

A thick cock.

Amazingly, impossibly, Richard hardened. In his mind, they rolled to face one another, temperature rising as the distance disappeared. He called upon that warm touch from earlier. Richard’s hands and face against Paul’s bare chest and shoulders, arms wrapping around. The scent of his sweat.

Richard let out the slightest of whines. He took himself in hand, began to stroke. He was hard and eager, excitement building fast.

What if it was Paul’s hand on him? Those clever, firm hands that tied masts and dug through electronics. The grip he had felt on his arm, his shoulder, his thigh. But lower, lower, stroking…

Or Richard’s hand on Paul’s cock. Stroking velvety skin, rubbing his thumb below the tip, across the veins. Paul’s breath mingling with Richard’s in puffs of laugher and moans. And Richard knew how Paul would sound. He’d heard Paul's hips slapping against flesh, the breathiness of his low groans, his chuckles and endearments. 

With a gasp, Richard spurted across his stomach, letting the visions overwhelm him as he wanked himself to completion.

He slumped back, panting., 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He was gay? He thought back back, trying to find some hint in his history that might have shown some sign. Then reeled the line of thinking back in.

He could worry about hid identity later. What would he do about this now?

Richard could hide it. Paul had never been interested in men, as far as Richard knew. A reveal like this could put their friendship at risk. And was this really any different than being attracted to a woman you were friends with? Plenty of his friends were beautiful women.

But...But what? This should have been reassuring. Instead there was...sinking, disappointed feeling.

_Ace of Cups..._

No. This _wasn’t_ just about sex, and it hadn’t come from nowhere. The athleticism of Paul riding the wind and waves. His collection of beautiful photographs. And his easy kindness and understanding. _That_ was what Richard wanted. 

Richard loved him. But was he in love with him?

_A cup so full of feeling it spills over…_

_Yes_ , Richard thinks with a wild joy. _Yes. I love him, I love him, I love him._

“I love him.” The words were heavy in the darkness, like a prayer.

The cards foretold this. And Richard _could_ win him. It was possible. If he turned things around, if he didn't give up, they could be…

Richard hugged the pillow tight, elated and afraid. It wasn’t a guarantee, but Richard never backed away from a challenge. And no matter how they fought, he could rely on Paul. It made too much sense. 

Richard and Paul, Paul and Richard, together. The Rammstein guitarists, old friends. Equal and opposite, like yin and yang. 

Richard had found the part of his world that was missing. He just needed to make it his.


	3. Chapter 3

Paul stood barefoot at the kitchen doorway, struggling into his shirt. “What’s the occasion?”

_I love you._

Richard smiled sheepishly, folding another flädle pancake onto the plate. “You wanted a personal cook.”

Richard’s sleep had been restless. At the first hint of light, he’d leapt out of bed in a whirl of nervous energy to smooth out his best shirt and shadow his eyelids. With Paul still sleeping, Richard dove into preparing a breakfast commensurate with his affection. 

He may have gone overboard. It had required an early trip to the nearby grocery store. He’d laid out a plate of ham, salami, and gouda, arranged in an alternating ray pattern around slices of their homemade bread. Paul’s preferred coffee was already waiting, flanked by sugar and cream. The flädle were to be served with a gob of strawberry jam, a dollop of fresh whipped cream, and a handful of blackberries.

In Richard’s food oriented haze of affection, he’d even called up a restaurant in hopes of reserving a spot for a romantic dinner, but they’d been booked solid.

Paul sat at the island, chin in hands, and observed. An awake, active Richard at this hour was a rarity. There was a concerned quirk to his eyebrows, but by the time Richard had added the jam and sugar, it was gone. Perhaps Paul thought this was an act of gratitude for yesterday.

If so, he was right. This was gratitude for yesterday, and the day before, and all the years together, for everything Paul had done and hadn’t done. Corny, but Richard was entitled to corniness on the day he confessed his love. He separated a clumped pile of blackberries so they’d be evenly distributed, and set the plate in front of Paul.

“Ooo, this is nice,” Paul cooed, and Richard glowed with pride. “I’ll get my camera.”

“It’s getting cold!” Richard called to Paul’s retreating back.

Paul returned and loomed over the plate, peering from every angle. The camera was a thousand times more awkward than a phone.

“Social media’s corrupted you.”

“You should be honored. 863 followers are going to see this.” 

When Paul finally dug in, he declared that it tasted as good as it looked, and Richard preened with each bite.

Paul wiped jam from his chin. “Did you eat already?” 

“Uh.” Right. “I’ll make mine now.”

Returning to the pan and turning his back to Paul was a relief. The romantic adrenaline propelling Richard waned at Paul’s sleepy grin. Between the night and morning, Paul had existed in Richard’s fevered imagination, involved with declarations of love or nights of passion that adhered to Richard’s script. Paul in the flesh never would.

“You took my criticisms to heart,” Paul garbled around his flädle.

Bubbles broke the sizzling flädle’s surface. “Which ones?”

“All gussied up, waking early to feed your man. You’ll snag a husband in no time.”

Blood flooded Richard’s face in a dizzying rush. He gasped, and cackled wildly. He was flustered and flattered into a nervous, giddy kind of hysteria. He covered his mouth and closed his eyes.

Click.

“Paul!”

Paul regarded his camera’s viewfinder. “Your flädle’s going to burn.”

By the time Richard sat down with his small serving, Paul was scooping up the last bit of whipped cream with a berry.

“Windsurfing today?” Richard asked. 

Not a love confession. The inertia of normality had reasserted itself. The feelings remained, but in the light of day, voicing them felt more and more like setting off a grenade.

Paul patted the black bulk of his camera. “Going to take some shots. I’ll head to Boulders Beach, check the view on Table Mountain. But Table Mountain’s kinda cliché. I’m not making postcards. You gonna work on music?”

His music… Richard’s creative angst seemed to be from an older, darker era. “Mind if I tag along, actually?” 

“Sure, if you model for me.”

“Seriously?” Modelling for Paul was less intimidating when Richard hadn’t wanted to bang him. If Paul looked closely, would he like what was there?

“You’re great at brooding mysteriously.” Paul did his best imitation, face wrinkling as he mined holding a cigarette. “And don’t fake modesty! I know you’ve posed nude.”

“Yeah, when I was young.” Richard drew gooey lines of jam as the conversation turned.

Later, in the bedroom, Richard felt sick. He paced from one end of the room to the other, until he spotted the deck of tarot cards on the windowsill.

Why the hell not? He pulled out the deck. The cards were rough and heavy. He shuffled, slow and careful, letting the force of his question penetrate the veil to whatever forces governed these matters. _What should I do about Paul?_

He cut the deck, and drew a card. It depicted an angel pouring silver foiled liquid from one goblet to another. Temperance.

That meant moderation, didn’t it? The manual was short, depicting two cards per page with a few sentences of explanation. Richard dug his glasses out of his luggage.

‘Temperance is the card of balance, patience, and steady progress. Temperance guides us to reject extremes, and calmly choose the middle path.’

Fuck. He wanted reassurance, a sign to rush downstairs and take Paul in his arms.

But was it what he needed to hear? Maybe it wasn’t fear, but intuition that held Richard back at breakfast. Exploding that bombshell without warning might have been taken the wrong way.

He had an entire day to spend with Paul. Days more after. Yes, Richard could do this. He just needed to Work toward that perfect moment.

* * *

The band had tackled the trail to the top of Table Mountain once, clambering over rocky paths so steep it was more climb than hike. Till had pointed out every rock hyrax they passed, no matter how distant, and harangued them all on their evolutionary relationship with elephants.

Today Richard and Paul took the cable car. Tourists crowded in, chattering in their native languages and staring out the windows. One opened to the air, with several railings to keep passengers in, and Paul maneuvered his way there, camera in hand. He kept standing on his toes to get a good shot, leaning so far out Richard’s stomach lurched.

“Careful.” No response.

Richard sighed, and rested his forehead against the glass. Lion’s Head Mountain shrank until it looked like a broken tablet, half-buried in a mound of earth.

How do you seduce one of your closest male friends? Richard pulled at his fingers. He could reach out and entangle them with Paul’s, if he would drop that camera. “You know—”

The car wobbled to a stop, and Paul headed out, browsing through shots on the viewfinder as Richard caught up.

Table Mountain, as its name implied, was flat on top. Paths bordered by fences of rough stone crisscrossed, circling around natural formations of lichen-spotted boulders. Moss filled crevices and shrubs tipped with yellow flowers swayed in the wind.

Richard zipped his jacket to the neck. He found Paul leaning against a sculpture of the mountain in miniature as he searched for...something. Paul half-smiled in greeting, then went back to looking around.

“Got any good shots?” Richard asked.

Paul shook his head, and began walking along the path, looking out over the Atlantic.

Richard was a little taken aback. He hesitated before following.

In the past, when Richard saw Paul taking pictures, it was secondary. They’d explore a locale or attend an event, and Paul would pull out the camera when an image caught his fancy. But today Paul wasn’t sightseeing. He was working, with the same focused determination he showed while up to his elbows in some sound system.

Paul wended his way along the path, stopping occasionally to find an angle and tap the shutter button. It was all beautiful: deep blue ocean, rolling green mountainside, boxy white buildings. What was worthy of a photo, or why, remained mysterious.

The last thing Richard wanted to be was a nuisance, but that didn’t mean he had to keep completely quiet. He waited for Paul to drop the camera so it hung by the strap over his neck.

“Remember Teotihuacan?” Richard said. While the paths and walls were modern, they’d been constructed to appear rough and old. Looking back on time spent together made Richard feel a pleasant nostalgia. Perhaps it would work with Paul.

“Hm?” Paul smirked. “I remember you falling off a pyramid.”

Okay, not what Richard was going for. “Our first time in Mexico. I can’t believe we were so young.”

Paul ‘hmmed’ in acknowledgement. He hopped up to sit on the rock fence. Cape Town and the ocean sprawled below.

“Beautiful,” Richard said, though he was thinking, ‘Don’t roll down the mountain’.

“I guess. I mean, it’s beautiful, but the shots can’t _just_ be beautiful.”

Richard sank back into silence, only occasionally popping up with observations, or responding to Paul's asides. They travelled along one side of the peak, then the other, Richard drifting behind as Paul forged on. Once they finished their circle, Paul went to his knees and took pictures of rocks. 

Richard found his own entertainment. He experimented with some amateur photography, and dropped a coin in tower binoculars. A hyrax permitted him to sit next to it, and he felt a brush of fur when it turned to bound away.

He lit his cigarette, and was confronted by the camera lens.

“I’ll try to look cool.” At least he had Paul’s attention. He tilted his head back, bent a leg.

“Could you turn your head to the left—your left? Back a bit.”

Modelling for Paul ended up being the same as modelling for anyone else. It kept Richard occupied, at least. Being ordered to move around like object wasn’t conductive to warm sentiments. Not on top of a crowded mountain with a crisp breeze, repositioning himself against rock formations

After a couple of hours, they ate at the café near the cableway building, seated at a balcony with its own view. It had lost some of its charm.

“You’re bored stupid, aren’t you?”

Richard stopped poking his overpriced chicken salad. Paul seemed chagrined.

Richard shook his head. “I knew what I was getting into. It’s not your job to entertain me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Paul waved a hand. “I was going to head to Boulders Beach next, but if you want head back to the beach house—”

“No.” 

It came out so emphatically, they were both surprised.

“I like spending time with you. Even if it’s just tagging along.”

Paul scratching behind his ear.

Nervous tension swirled in Richard’s chest. “I. Uh. You know. I’ve been thinking, you know, about—stuff lately. How lucky I am to have the friends I have, and Rammstein. And you’re one of those friends I’m lucky to have. I know you so well, but there are these other things I don’t know about you, or haven’t seen as much of, like your secret photography social media account. It’s nice to be with someone I know so well, and still learn new things about them. You know?”

Paul blinked. “Aw. I’m glad you’re here too.”

What the hell was that? At least Paul wasn’t completely weirded out at this point.

When they stood to leave, Paul held his arms out for a hug, and Richard accepted the offer with a tender squeeze. Paul smelled nice, and wanted to kiss him then and there.

* * *

Boulders Beach was at the end of a long, wooden boardwalk, hemmed in by trees and shrubbery. It gave the place the feel of some secret, isolated cove, despite the families of tourists clomping along beside them. It was part of the same nature reserve as Table Mountain, and another site they’d visited with Rammstein. The main attraction was the penguins, that waddled along like fat, tiny gentlemen.

“You could call your exhibition ‘Big Rocks, Small Animals’,” Richard said. Paul laughed.

The rocks here had their own distinct character from the mountains. These were proper boulders, smoothed by waves and scattered among the sand and water.

When they reached sand, Paul’s expression took on the same frowning, searching character from Table Mountain. In a moment, he’d run, absorbed in work. Richard hadn’t been lying earlier; it wasn’t Paul’s job to entertain him. But there had to be a better way to do this. 

“What are you looking for?” Richard asked.

Paul looked back, eyebrows raised.

“To photograph. I mean, you’re obviously not just taking pictures of anything.”

“Interesting shapes,” Paul said. “Where there’s a compelling foreground, midground, and background. Balance. A composition that guides the viewer through the entire frame. Colors...”

“Uh. Penguins have an interesting shape.” Richard pointed to one laying on its stomach in the sand, like it had tripped and couldn’t get up.

“Photography is about how all the elements come together.” Paul scrutinized the penguin. “It can’t just be a cute animal. Though...I guess…maybe...”

Paul headed over and sprawled out on the sand, like a much taller penguin. The penguin’s only acknowledgement was a momentary tilt of beak at its observer. A few clicks, and he returned, leaving behind a Paul shaped groove and shedding sand. 

After an interlude in which they brushed off Paul’s clothes, Paul pulled the pictures up on the viewfinder. Richard crowded against Paul’s shoulder, enjoying the closeness.

The penguin was in the center of the frame, head proudly tilted upward. It’s body looked like an American football. It was artsy and absurd.

Once they finished laughing, Paul said, delighted, “This will look even stupider in black and white.”

“Get me a print for my bathroom.” There was an empty spot right over a towel bar across from the toilet. A penguin print would enhance the shitting experience. “How do you even do that?”

“I got on the ground, pointed the camera, and pressed the button on top.”

Richard hooked a finger under the back of Paul’s beanie and tugged until it passed the hairline. Paul sputtered and slapped him away to pull it back. It felt naughty, the warmth of Paul’s scalp and the bristle of close cropped hairs.

Paul sniffed indignantly as readjusted his beanie. Richard hadn’t meant for the act to be anything more than an innocent annoyance, and he felt a bit guilty for enjoying it. 

“I’m serious,” Richard said, “This should just be a photo of a penguin, but it’s...artistic. I’m used to hearing photographer jargon by now, but I still don’t really know what it means, or what they’re doing.”

“There’s a bunch of things. Here.” Paul handed the camera over. As he spoke, he drew his finger across the image. “You were right about the shape, so I wanted to highlight that by putting him—her—whatever, dead center. Because it’s taken from the side, it’s formal. In real life, we rarely see things directly from the front or side.” He turned his head back and forth in demonstration.

“By getting low, I shoot it from a perspective that makes it seem larger and imposing. This is a crab’s eye view of a penguin, not a human one. And the background is clean and sharp. The line of the beach, the ocean, and the sky. No clutter. It makes the penguin seem like it was artificially posed instead of being in its natural habitat. The black and white of the penguin is a nice, strong contrast, too. ”

Paul looked at Richard’s stunned expression. “I’m rambling. But you did ask!”

Had Richard always found competence this attractive? “That’s fascinating. I’d love to hear more.”

“You would?”

Richard didn’t know why Paul was surprised. Maybe he was more self conscious about his hobby than he let on. 

“If it doesn’t interfere with your work.”

“No, no problem at all,” Paul stood straighter. “I’ll explain as I go.”

Richard had no right to call anyone a chatterbox, but if he did, Paul-explaining-things would be on the list. He had strong opinions about music, fashion, food, interior design, editing, graphic design, and, of course, photography. Especially when it came to things that were shit, which in Paul’s opinion, was. Unless you thought it was shit, then he would take the opposite position.

Their beach excursion became Photography 101. Paul would take a picture, explain what he was doing, and why. As they went on, Richard got better at suggesting potential shots—the view of the ocean peeking out between two boulders, the texture of penguin footprints on the sand—and Paul coached him through taking some shots of his own.

“Golden hour,” Paul said, pointing to the sky.

Richard stopped flipping through his phone’s recent photos. “Huh?”

“Magic hour, golden hour, whatever. Sunset’s coming soon.”

“Already?” Richard checked his phone. Time had flown by. 

“This is a great time for photography. There’s a warm tone, strong shadows. You can get halos of light around things, or silhouettes.” Paul was removing what he’d explained was a long range lens and replacing it with another.

Indeed, the dropping sun was casting a gold hue through the skies and across the beach. Their blue-tinged shadows stretched out beneath them, retreating to the east.

“Get up on that boulder for me. Vest off.”

Without handholds, Richard’s scramble to the top was inelegant. His hair and clothes were probably a mess at this point.

“And unbutton your shirt,” Paul called. He’d hopped up on a shorter rock and was lining up his shot.

Richard’s fingers lingered at his collar.

“C’mon, golden hour didn’t get its name by lasting a long time.”

He took a breath, and obeyed. “I’m not exactly fitness model material.”

Paul snorted. There was a pause, then he lowered the camera. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“I know, I know, I’m being—”

“You’re a literal rock star, and the sexiest in the band.”

“I mean, maybe. Once. Nowadays, though...” He rested a hand on his stomach. “...not so much.”

“Richard Zven Kruspe.” Paul stood straight, placed a hand on his chest. “I swear on my signature Le Paul guitar that you are a handsome man. You’ve got shoulders any girl would want to rest their head on, a chest like a bodybuilder, eyes like sapphires, a face—”

“Stop! Stop!” Richard buried his scarlet face in his hands.

“Are you going to man up and strip or what?”

“Okay, okay…”

Richard unbuttoned the shirt, trying to morph his flustered expression into something more suitable for fine art.

Paul meant it. On the rare occasions he did sugarcoat his opinions, it was painfully obvious. It took intense effort for Richard keep his face from breaking out into an absurd grin.

The drive back was mostly quiet. They’d talked themselves hoarse on the beach, and had spent the day running around a mountaintop. Richard uploaded his favorite penguin pics to the Rammstein WhatsApp (after leaving obligatory compliments on Schneider’s latest dump of kid photos). The silence was broken by Richard’s phone: someone had cancelled their reservation, and they could have it if they arrived in forty minutes. A sign from the universe. 

Paul whined that he wouldn’t have time to relax and back up his photos. But once they’d changed into sandless clothes, hunger took over, and Paul asked Richard to read out the menu on the drive over.

* * *

When Richard had googled “most romantic Cape Town restaurants” that morning, most of the locations he found boasted of their ocean views. Considering they could see the ocean in their living room, that wasn’t exactly a draw. Richard chose this one for its décor.

He knew he’d picked well when Paul let out a soft “ooo” as they were escorted to their seats. They were dining outdoors, surrounded by hedges and potted plants and trees, a secret fairy garden. The eclectic decorations, including classical statues, enhanced the effect. One corner even had a couch with mismatched pillows.

“I kinda wish I’d brought my camera now,” said Paul as he scooted his chair in. He nodded at a birdcage hanging from a tree, complete with fake bird.

“I don’t think the diners would appreciate that,” Richard said, imagining Paul standing on the table for a better view. 

Paul settled for snapping a single picture with his phone (from his chair).

The awkwardness from earlier, when Richard had been trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, had dissipated. They were laughing, reminiscing, joking, easy in one another’s company. The food was great, the atmosphere was perfect. Of its own accord, Richard’s hand crept its way across the table, hungry for Paul’s. And in the darkness of the evening, with the light glowing from their small table, it felt intimate.

“I have this idea for a shot on the beach,” Paul said. “You might have to get naked.”

“That’s illegal here.”

“We’ll figure it out. Anyway, if it rains, I’d like a shot of you, on the shore? In black and white. At Boulders Beach. ”

Paul paused to drink. The bob of his throat was fascinating.

What a man. A handsome man, a stylish man, so clever and creative and funny. A man whom Richard could disagree with yet respect. 

Richard let his breath become slow, deliberate. “Paul,” he said, almost choking out the name, “Today-spending it with you—it was great. I’ve been thinking-feeling...you know. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask—well, tell you.”

It took a moment for Richard to realize Paul wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his gaze was aimed over Richard’s shoulder. Richard turned.

A middle aged couple was seated behind them. The woman, plump, with a band of butterflies tattooed on her bicep,beamed into a narrow box lying open by her dessert plate. Her companion, a thin, bespectacled man, was half-hunched over, a nervous smile on lips. The woman stood, stepped over, and kissed him.

Paul’s eyes sparkled in the lamp light.

Richard started to stand, reaching out.

Paul held up a hand. He let out a shaky breath, and dabbed at the corners of his eyes with the cloth napkin.

“Paul…”

“I’m okay. Really.” His smile was sad, a little sardonic.

There was silence as Paul wrestled himself back under control. He leaned back in the chair, and his features were shadowed.

“I’m okay,” Paul continued. “Or will be. It’s just… it still stings, when you poke it.”

“I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Hey, it’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault.”

But it was. Because Richard was why they were at the most romantic restaurant in Cape Town, surrounded by couples, and Richard had been seconds from declaring his love at the most inappropriate fucking moment imaginable to his recently divorced friend.

“It’s just...I thought it was going to last.” Paul closed his eyes, rubbed the back of his neck, as if trying to soothe some ache. “It was one of those pillars you build your life around. Or, if life’s a table, she was a leg. And when it collapsed…” 

“I’ve got everything balanced again, more or less.” Paul sighed heavily. “ Thanks for being a good leg...so my good china doesn't break.”

This time Richard grabbed Paul’s hand, and squeezed. “Anytime.”

The rest of the meal passed in quiet conversation. Guilt felt sour on Richard’s tongue. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious. That was the last thing Paul needed, his eyes still red from rubbing. Paul seemed to have recovered by the time they were in the car. He was a little lighter, a bit of a weight off his shoulders. Richard kept glancing from the road back to Paul, not sure what he was afraid of.

“Let’s go there tomorrow night,” Paul said, pointing out the window.

“Where?” Richard glanced over, but it had already passed.

“Club Lunar. It’s a gay bar. I wanna dance.”

Richard didn’t seek out gay bars, but friends, convenience, and even curiosity drew him in occasionally. There was a certain atmosphere in gay clubs, an accepting, wild sort of energy that was perfect for dancing to EDM with friends until the break of dawn. Visiting might make for a fun night.

_Before_ Richard was gay. If he even was gay. Shit, he hadn’t even figured that out yet. Just a nice, normal night at the local gay bar with his male friend whom he was in love with.

Maybe at this point it was normal. It wasn’t as if he’d successfully moved their relationship forward today.

Richard didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Sounds good.”

* * *

They spent the next morning on the water. The physical exertion and the distance from Paul muted fears nagging at the back of Richard’s mind. Until they returned to the beach house, and Paul started to peel off his wetsuit in the hallway. They roared with such ferocity Richard fled to the bathroom.

The worst part of being in love with one’s oldest friend, Richard decided, was that they knew you too well. He could see it in Paul’s concerned glances reflected in the hall mirror, in the goofy antics. Paul pulled up George’s Instagram and mocked each photo with such caustic humor, Richard bent over the arm of the couch, tears in his eyes, laughing so hard his abs hurt.

At golden hour, Paul got his guitar, and they jammed on the porch. First Paul was rhythm, then Richard, notes dancing over the other’s foundation. Golden light haloed Paul’s figure from the setting sun His eyes were closed, his bare foot tapping the wood to the beat. Something welled up inside Richard, and it spilled out through his fingers.

“That little melody right there? That’s beautiful” Paul said.

Richard couldn’t look him in the eye. Maybe it was the sunlight.

By nightfall, Richard was at a loss. The more comfortable Richard was in Paul’s presence, the harder it seemed to shift the conversation toward a confession. Richard’s feelings couldn’t be repressed, but that didn’t make expressing them easier.

He drew another card from the deck. No question. Any sign from the universe would do.

The Devil. An black, bestial silhouette dominated the card, with curling horns and open wings. A pair of demons were tethered to its through by silver foil chains.

Richard shuffled it back into the deck. 

* * *

“Oh. My. Fuck. Is that _glitter_?” Paul gaped up from the foot of the stairs, delighted as a child on Christmas. A child with awful taste, considering his shirt’s watermelon pink floral pattern. 

“Shimmering Night Sky eyeshadow.” Richard smoothed his hair, tugged at his sleeve. The primping and prep hadn’t mattered. Why would they, when Paul had seen him at his best a thousand times? “It was one of the shades on the palette I never used, but for a special occasion...”

Paul mounted the steps two at a time “I can’t believe you kept this from me!”

Surreal. Richard stood leaning against the toilet as Paul slathered his eyelids with black. It was like preparing to go on stage, but just the two of them. Paul was the same Paul. He joked, and twisted his face into exaggerated expressions in the mirror. But Richard was noticing the cute smudge across Paul’s nose, how the cut of the loud shirt emphasized his shoulders. How endearing it was that Paul would buy and wear it with absolute confidence.

With the palette empty and Richard’s sink sprinkled in powder, Paul struck a pose. He resembled a flamboyant, cosmic raccoon. “I look gay. But sexy, right?”

It was as hot as it was ridiculous, and Richard almost kissed him on the forehead. “You always do.”  
  


Club Lunar was all blaring EDM, flashing lights, and hot, younger men. Paul made a beeline for the bar. By the time Richard caught up, he was waiting on his drink.

The buff bartender, wearing a vest with nothing under it, set the tumblr of vodka down. “Nice makeup, sweetie.”

“Thanks, I stole it from my friend!” Paul downed it in a single gulp.

Right. This was why Richard disliked going to clubs nowadays. He barely drank, and music drowned out conversation. A boring headache. 

Paul bounced from foot to foot to the beat, with all the energy of a toddler. When did Richard’s transform into a grandpa? Was it the smoking?

Before Richard’s brain could approach the horrifying reality that he could be a literal grandpa in the next few years, Paul grabbed his sleeve and mouthed “c’mon”.

Richard followed him to the dance floor, pushing through a crush of bodies. Paul was practically skipping, eyes gleaming from the starry black. 

His delight was contagious, and Richard smiled back, nodding and rocking his hips. Paul winked outrageously, bounced around in a little spin.

All around, men pressed closed to their partners, hands on hips and asses, asses against hips. One tilted his head back, and another licked a line from his collarbone to his ear. 

They should have taken an Uber. Richard was too sober for this. 

After an eternity, they headed back to the bar to catch their breath. Richard gulped down a club soda with lime in a refreshing swallow, then ordered another.

Paul rubbed the cool copper mug of his Moscow mule across his forehead. “Kids nowadays have too much energy. Ready to go back?” A drop of condensation slid down his cheek, trailing a dark tear stain.

A lie. For _his_ benefit. Maybe Richard should just crawl behind the bar and die, seeing as he already had a foot in the grave. “I just need a break.”

Paul nodded, took a deep drink. There had been a pause, like he’d been about to say something, then decided against it.

After a few minutes, Paul plopped the lime from his empty drink into Richard’s soda. “See yah!” he said in a tipsy sing-song, and off he went.

Richard was left to his thoughts. Once in a while, he looked over his shoulder to find Paul in the sea of bodies. He’d made some friends: a bunch of kids that looked barely out of high school, who were cheering on what looked like a demonstration of Flake’s worse dance moves. Paul always had an easy time making friends.

A gust of warm air across his ear. “Bigger Dude!”

Richard jumped and swung around. He was confronted by a wall of bare, bulging muscle topped by flowing blond hair.

“Easy, Bigger Dude!” said the eight-pack surfer. But, in the intense lighting and close proximity, it was looking more like a ten-pack.

Richard relaxed, barely. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey! Enjoying your vacation?” 

Richard nodded. He almost asked why the surfer was here, or if he was gay, but it seemed like a pretty stupid question.

“Where’s Little Dude?” the surfer asked, reaching over as the bartender handed him a cosmopolitan. 

Richard pointed. Paul was doing his best impression of the Till Hammer.

“Woah, Little Dude dances like nobody is watching.” The surfer sipped his pink drink contemplatively. 

The kids, apparently impressed with Paul’s display, were now performing their own hammers. Richard smiled. “He does, doesn’t he?”

Richard continued nursing the dregs of melted ice, and watched.

He’d almost assumed the surfer had left, when he said, “You look down, Bigger Dude. You should go dance.”

“I’m not feeling it tonight.”

“Dude…” said the ten-pack surfer, “I’m sure Little Dude would want to dance with you.”

Something clenched painfully under Richard’s heart. “He’s found better dancers than me.”

The surfer’s large hand covered Richard’s shoulder. “Bigger Dude,” the surfer said, eyes heavy with solemnity, “Do you know what you dance with?”

It was so strange Richard found himself answering, “Your body. The music?”

“No, Dude.” The surfer moved his hand to Richard’s chest, and poked. “You dance with your Heart. Like surfing, or making love.” 

“Uh.”

“Open up your heart to the beat. Ride it like a gnarly pipeline And when two hearts connect? Magic like nothing else.Even the wipeout is beautiful.”

“I know how to dance,” Richard sputtered, stepping away. “I’ve been dancing since before you were born.” Oh God. What kind of shitty comeback was that?

The surfer nodded. “Everyone needs reminders sometimes. Later, Bigger Dude.”

Richard was alone again. _What the fuck was that?_

But maybe, again, that had been a truth he needed to hear. A gay, topless surfer wasn’t a a tarot card deck, but he wasn’t wrong. Since Richard’s revelation, interactions with Paul had been...difficult. He didn’t know what to say or do. Sure, there were moments that flowed naturally between them, like at Boulders Beach, but Richard’s brain kept getting in the way. And now he was missing out on dancing with the man he loved in a gay bar.

Richard turned to rest his back against the bar, eyes on Paul. Dance with his heart, huh? He listened, tapping his foot to a pounding remix of what might have been a Klylie Minogue song. Where was that wild young man that would dance with Till until sunrise? He had to be down there, somewhere. He let his focus move from the beat, to his body, to his breath. Breathed in, breathed out.

Vaguely, he realizes his arms had reached out of their own accord. One high, one low, curled as if to grip some kind of…

Richard laughed so loudly the men next to him turned to look. God, he really had been overthinking things.

He squeezed his way to Paul. “Can I have this dance?” he asked, and Paul turned from the drunk young men, teeth flashing in a grin.

“Richard!” Paul threw his arms up. “I will allow it.”

Amazing how nerves could cloud the mind. Richard danced with Paul all the time, stomping and headbanging. Just because they held a guitar and played on stage didn’t make it any less of a dance. Richard imagined this Lana Del Rey remix was something the pair of them were conjuring up together, and it was as easy as that.

They danced and danced, nodding their heads in sync, as if in affirmation. It was hot in the press of bodies, with the physical exertion, so Richard unbuttoned his shirt, and Paul whistled. After a chaotic spin, Paul tripped and fell against him. When Paul drew back, he kept his hand on Richard's shoulder. And why not? They were friends, brothers, and they loved one another. They got closer and closer, but there was a chastity to it, forehead pressed to forehead. An arm loosely wrapped around a waist.

The opening notes of Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own” started to play, a damn good song that sent a shot of energy to Richard’s core. He laughed in delight, and Paul did too. Paul reached up,stroked his hand along the side of Richard’s face, until the knuckles barely brushed his neck, and settled heavy on his shoulder. The expression softened, and Paul’s eyes followed the trail of his fingers, then crept down his chest.

There was a heaviness to that last dance, from tiredness and...something else. Paul leaned closer. Richard’s loosened movements felt sinuous, like a cat shifting into a pet. When Paul said, “Ready to get out of here?” their hands were slow to slide one another’s bodies, as if separation was an effort.

* * *

“Aaahh, that was fun!” Paul twirled, then sprawled back against the couch. 

The roar of the ocean seemed muffled. The window reflected them and the room like a great black mirror. 

“Yeah.” Richard lingered in the doorway. His body was loose, his mind quiet.

Paul stretched his arms above his head, arching his back. Every muscle in his arms stood taught.

Richard opened his mouth. The words that came out were, “Shame you can’t take a girl home from a gay bar.”

“Maybe you can? I saw some girls there? I guess they’d be lesbians though. But they could like both. Or maybe they were guys who looked like girls. I dunno, there’s so many words and genders nowadays.”

Richard stepped closer, each move painfully deliberate, until he reached where Paul’s feet were propped on the arm of the couch.

“Do you think it would be different,” Richard said, “with a man?”

A beat of silence. Paul’s eyebrows arched. “Hairier?” He laughed softly, something careful in his eyes.

“You know...” Richard moved closer again, his eyes never leaving Paul’s. Blooded pounded in his ears. “...out of all the things we’ve tried—even sex with the same girl in the same room—we’ve never done that.”

The waves roared in the distance.

This time, it took a long moment for Paul to respond “You think we should?” His expression and tone were trying to be neutral, but his eyes were wide.

“Why not?”

Paul's jaw dropped.

“I’ll suck your cock.” Hearing the words out loud, thoughts made sound, set Richard’s skin ablaze.

He knelt, his hand poised over Paul’s zipper. “Can I?”

Paul’s eyes were huge. His throat bobbed. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Fuck. Yes. Just—just do it, if you’re going to do it.” 

Richard took a deep, shaky breath, and unbuttoned then unzipped the black jeans. Paul was murmurring under his breath, things like, “fucking fuck” and “what the hell”.

He pulled down the jeans, the boxers...and there it was. Already starting to harden. Carefully, Richard wrapped his hand around the shaft. It twitched, warm against his palm. 

“Oh God.” Paul threw an arm over his eyes, chest rising and falling.

The curls of hair, the smell of sweat, the strangely familiar but foreign feel of a velvety skin in his hand. Richard had never handled someone else’s dick before, much less given a blowjob. It was a frightening amount of power to have a loved one’s genitals in your grip. So trusting for Paul to allow it.

_I’ll be careful. I’ll do my best._

He started slow, gentle strokes, sliding the foreskin over the glands, fascinated as it stiffened. Paul’s hips tilted up, meeting Richard’s fist. Richard’s own cock strained in its confinement.

He ran two fingers along the underside, pausing to tease at the base of the head. He gave Paul’s balls an experimental fondle, but at Paul’s sharp, indrawn breath, withdrew. A bead of moisture gathered at the tip and dripped along Richard’s knuckles.

Richard settled on the other end of the couch, straddling Paul’s legs on something resembling all fours, with one leg still on the floor. Vulnerable or not, a dick looked a lot more intimidating when you were trying to fit it in your mouth. And Paul was...girthy. He felt a surge of respect for every woman who had ever managed to deep throat him.

He licked the head. Paul gasped. Warm and salty.

Richard dipped down and took it in his mouth. He bobbed his head, meeting his hand to work the rest of the shaft.

“Teeth,” came a warning hiss.

Fuck. Richard widened his mouth and covered his teeth with his lips. He moved with almost painful slowness, up and down, until he was sure he wouldn’t be chastised again.

Then, a hand was in his hair, pulling the strands tight in a firm grip. Richard expected to be roughly pulled off, but the tug didn’t come. He looked up. Paul’s gaze was fixed on Richard, intent.

Paul’s grip tightened, stinging his scalp. What it would be like if Paul forced him down, fucking his throat until he choked?

Richard whined. He sped up, stroking and sucking, the shaft shiny with his spit. Paul’s low moans came louder and faster. The taste of pre cum coated Richard’s tongue.

“Fuck!” cried Paul, releasing Richard’s hair.

Richard braced himself. He choked down the first salty swallow, then pulled off, jerking Paul with hand, eyes half-closed as slimy jets spurted across his face.

They lay there for a moment, quiet but for Paul’s straining pants. Richard wiped his face with his sleeve.

Richard’s body burned hot. He began to crawl up the length of Paul’s body.

But when Paul opened his eyes he looked...stricken. The flush of receded, leaving his skin bone white. He scrambled away into a sitting position, and began pulling up his pants. “I—I’m not sure I—” Paul’s gaze turned from Richard’s come smeared face, to the bulge of his crotch, then determinedly away.

“You don’t have to,” Richard said quickly, retreating. “You don’t have to do anything.” Richard reached out, but Paul was already on his feet.

Paul looked at Richard’s face, then looked away again. “That was definitely...something. I—Listen. I’m going to go to bed, okay?”

“Okay…”

Richard was left in the living room, come drying on his face, reflected alone in the big black window.


End file.
